Facial wounds bleed a lot. I was reminded of that the day my brother Cole had a bad wreck at a rodeo in Lethbridge, Alberta. In the finals on Sunday, Cole drew a rank bull that hadn’t been ridden in fourteen outs. It was a nasty looking black and white Brahman that rammed its skull into the rail I was standing on.
After Cole eased down into the chute, I took a deep breath, pulled the bull rope, and slapped his back three times for good luck — just the way our dad used to. Cole secured his hat and tucked his chin before he nodded. The gate opened and the bull exploded into the arena with the same force as the adrenaline that shot through me.
A country song blared over the loud speakers, and the crowd cheered as the bull cranked out a succession of belly rolls and shivers. The bull turned into Cole’s hand and side bucked before it whipped around and reared back. He spun twice more to the left, then jumped and kicked with a twist that should have knocked my brother off. When the eight-second buzzer went, Cole reached down with his free hand, jerked his riding hand out of his rope, dismounted, and landed on his feet. He didn’t even lose his hat.
Once I was sure he was all right, I hollered, “Yeah! Now, that’s how it’s done.”
The other guys working the chutes gave me high fives before I leaned over the railing to slap palms with a bullfighter named Mutt. A score of ninety flashed up on the board, Cole tipped his hat to the crowd and then fanned the bull as it ran by him.
Mutt chuckled. “There he goes, stirring the pot again.”
“Shit,” I mumbled and checked over my shoulder. The last thing we needed was Cole disrespecting the stock contractor. I jumped down from the chute and jogged over to where Cole was making his way down the front row signing a bunch of programs and one particularly nice cleavage. Saving him from himself was getting to be a full time job.
“Okay, tone it down,” I said as I pushed him under the grandstand where it reeked of stale beer and popcorn.
“Why? I’m just giving them their money’s worth.”
“Yeah, well, Ron Miller looks like he’s about to stroke out because you fanned one of his best bulls. Stop showboating.”
He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “I get sponsors by working the crowd, not by kissing a stock contractor’s ass. I couldn’t care less about Ron Miller.”
“You should care because —”
We both stopped talking and watched the last rider leave the chute. He needed a ninety-two to beat Cole, which wasn’t likely, but it was possible.
After the eight-second buzzer went, Cole mumbled, “Damn. That was a good ride.” His cocky attitude faded and he chewed on the leather cuff of his glove as he stared at the scoreboard, waiting. Eventually, an eighty-seven flashed up on the screen. “Yeah, baby!” Cole shouted and thrust his arms victoriously into the air. “Looks like we’re eating steaks tonight.” He jumped on my back, hooting and hollering.
I pushed him off. Partly because he was acting like a fool, and partly because I was too tired to celebrate. “Just go get your buckle and the cheque so we can get the hell out of here.”
“Aw, come on, Billy. I want to party and the girls here are half-decent. Let’s stay a while.” He shoved my chest. “I bet that new barrel racer you’ve been staring at all weekend wouldn’t mind if you hung around tonight. What’s her name again?”
Although I knew exactly who he meant, I wanted to sleep in my own bed for the first time in two weeks, not hang around while he got rowdy. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” I pulled my hat down at the front and spit tobacco juice on the dirt near his boot.
He laughed at my avoidance tactic. “Yes, you do. The blonde with the white horse and the tight ass.”
I removed my hat and ran my fingers through my hair as I scanned the crowd, looking for her. “I’m tired. I just want to go home.”
“You’re too young to be tired. And if you don’t rope that filly, I will.”
“Don’t,” I warned.
He smiled at my reaction. “I knew you liked her. Let’s stay.”
“No. My credit card is maxed out. Meet me at the truck. We’re going home.”
“Come on, Billy. We can stay for a while,” he begged as the rodeo queen approached us. Her hair was three feet wide, her make-up was three inches thick, and there were so many sequins on her outfit it was almost blinding.
She smiled in a flirty way and linked her arm around Cole’s elbow. “Come on, darling. It’s time for the presentation.”
He winked at me, confident that he had convinced me to stay. Then he walked away with her.
“I’ll leave without you,” I shouted.
He waved jokingly without looking back. The cloud of perfume the rodeo queen likely wore to kill the stench of bullshit lingered — even after they were already at the champion’s platform near the grandstand. Watching someone else take home the buckle and prize money was never something that sat well with me, not even when it was my own brother. When they announced Cole’s name, I wandered out past the back pens. My phone rang as I reached the lot where the participants all parked and camped. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she would keep calling if I didn’t answer.
“Hey, Ma.”
“Is your brother still in one piece?”
“Yeah. He won. How did your doctor’s appointment go?”
“Fine. Everything is about the same. How are you doing, hon?”
A combination of frustration and exhaustion shot out of my mouth when I exhaled. “I think it’s time for me to stop touring and get back to making a regular paycheque.”
“Cole won’t take his medications or eat properly if you’re not there with him. You know that.”
“He’s a big boy. I can’t spend the rest of my life following around after him picking up his messes.”
I knew she had hoped if I stayed on the tour for Cole’s sake I would eventually start riding again. It didn’t work. The more I hung around without competing, the more I hated it. I spit tobacco juice onto the grass.
“Are you chewing?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I ain’t chewing.” I paced around on the grass looking out at the horizon. She didn’t say anything else, so I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him. We’ll see you tonight.”
She sighed. “Okay. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” I hung up and turned to drop the tailgate of my truck, because Cole knew I wouldn’t leave without him, and I knew he was going to take forever milking the win.
Shae-Lynn Roberts, the youngest daughter of the best chuckwagon racer in the country, leaned against the side of the truck wearing jeans and a white tank top. She’d already brushed out the curls she wore for competition and had her hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Hey Billy. How’s your mom?”
“Good.” I sat down on the tailgate and reached for a bottle of beer out of the cooler that I kept in the back.
“Is she still having falls?”
I